


the random frantic action that we take

by MaryPSue



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Gen, beth is my daughter now and I'm taking her out for ice cream and telling her how proud I am of her, hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy crossover if you squint and look at it sideways, is it still an AU if all the AUs are technically canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 21:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10625505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryPSue/pseuds/MaryPSue
Summary: Beth goes hitchhiking.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Amanda Palmer's 'Astronaut: A Short History Of Nearly Nothing'.

Beth leaves shortly after Summer heads upstairs to pack. Slams the headset down on the counter hard enough to put a crack in the viewscreen, sick of the nausea curdling in the pit of her stomach at the sight of the empty house, the birdcages dominating every corner of the main room. Sure, it’s a dream life. It’s also completely out of her grasp. And the darkness of the room is suffocating.

“Can we find another channel?” Jerry’s complaining, as Beth makes her way behind the couch to the stairs. “Think we’ve all seen just about enough of ourselves for one lifetime.”

She isn’t planning to leave, at first. She’s just planning to remove herself from the kitchen, and earshot of her family, and easy reach of the wine. Make it easier for herself to make positive life decisions, to do something constructive instead of destructive, all those platitudes she’s picked up from the (useless) marriage counseling sessions. She’s better than this, she’s better than - she won’t let a little (enormous) thing like this drag her down. Beth will rise above, she will be steady in the face of adversity and she’ll set a good example for the kids and - and -

There’s a  _thump_  from down the hall, Summer slamming her closet door, and Beth sags against the wall.

Summer opens her mouth to yell when Beth pushes open her door, but stops when Beth grabs the garbage bag full of clothes and says, “If you can’t carry it down the stairs, then you’re not going to be able to haul it all the way across the country. And you’ll want it to be able to fit in the overhead bins on an airplane or a bus. Don’t you have a duffel bag somewhere?”

“Wait, you’re… _helping_  me run away from home?” Summer asks, squinting suspiciously and pulling the garbage bag in close to her chest. Beth can’t blame her. “You’re my  _mom_. Aren’t you supposed to, like, try and talk me out of it?”

“Probably,” Beth says. “Did you pack a good winter coat? It gets cold in the desert at night, and you’ll probably end up spending a few of them outside.”

“Oh, I get it. This is some kind of reverse psychology thing where you pretend you’re helping me, but really you’re just trying to scare me out of going,” Summer snaps. “Well, don’t bother. Just get out of my room, okay? Haven’t you already made enough of a mess of your  _own_  life?”

…

It’s so much easier than she’d imagined.

Well. No. If Beth is being honest with herself - and she’s trying to, she’s done with lying to herself - it’s exactly as easy as she’d always imagined it would be. She makes sure she has her passport, all her ID and credit cards, her best clothes and her good jewellery. Something warm to wear on cold nights. The taser, from when Summer was little and they lived in that shitty apartment downtown and she’d had to take the bus back from the surgery at all hours.

And she leaves.

She walks straight past the living room and no one even turns around. Nobody notices the squeaky wheel of her suitcase as she drags it across the floor, nobody notices the creak of the hinges when the door opens. A tinny voice from the television makes a lame dick joke, and her father - the father who’d almost miraculously reappeared in her life after abandoning them without a word, after being away for so long that she’d started to think she’d never see him again, the man she’s spent her entire lifetime simultaneously longing to have back and yet trying not to become - bursts out laughing.

Beth slams the door behind her on the way out.

Nobody comes running out to the driveway when she starts the car. Nobody appears in her rearview mirror as she pulls out of the driveway and peels off down the street. As far as her family’s concerned, Beth might as well not even be gone.

She wonders, in the back of her mind, why she didn’t do this years ago.

Beth fixes her eyes on the horizon, and pushes the gas pedal to the floor.

…

She starts small. Paris, Athens, Rome. Cities known for - yes,  _thank_  you, Jerry - their sexually aggressive men. And incredible food, and architecture, and art, and history. Their culture. (And wine.)

It’s exciting, for a while. Living like a fugitive, like a libertine. Beth maxes out her credit cards and doesn’t feel a shred of guilt. She’s the one who’s been paying the bills all these years, anyway. Might as well get a little enjoyment out of it.

She lives in hotels and hostels, takes tours of art galleries and medieval towns, visits churches older than her home country and marvels at beautiful frescos of worlds beyond the one she lives in, worlds beyond the mundane agony of earthly life. She eats all kinds of local delicacies and learns to cook some of them. She makes friends with other travellers and locals alike. She does odd jobs - some of the oddest jobs she’s ever done. She learns how to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘where is the washroom’ in seven different languages. She swims in the ocean under a shimmering blue sky, so perfect and even that it’s like the dome of an eggshell seen from inside. She pays five hundred euros for a pair of Swarovski-crystal-bedazzled high heels. 

It’s meaningful. It’s fulfilling. It’s everything she ever wanted when she was back at home in her suburban house, on her suburban street, married to someone she could generously call her high school sweetheart, with two children and a dog.

And then one day she’s standing in an art gallery with the beefy arm of a beautiful Norwegian almost ten years her junior nestled around her waist, squinting at an ornate, gilded empty frame hanging in the dead centre of a huge white wall, and something in Beth, something small and vital that’s been straining for longer than she can even know, snaps.

The Norwegian - Nils or Jens or something - is in the middle of waxing rhapsodic about the use of negative space and the artist’s incisive commentary on the emptiness of consumer culture when Beth interrupts him by throwing her wineglass as hard as she can at the wall. It strikes a little right of centre in the middle of the empty frame, shattering explosively and spraying a rather cheap red across the wall. 

Pale red droplets start to trickle down the wall, the only sound in the sudden, shocked hush the slow  _tap tap tap_  of wine dripping against the hardwood floor.

“And there’s my incisive commentary on the relative worth of modern art,” Beth says, as the Norwegian draws back, looking stunned and betrayed. The look is mirrored on just about every face around the room.

The crowd parts for Beth as she strides out, snagging two more glasses of wine from a paralysed waiter as she goes. She knocks one back before she even makes it to the door.

…

It’s not raining, outside, just drizzling, a fine foggy mist that turns Beth’s carefully-coiffed hair into a ball of frizzy curls and makes the ancient cobblestones treacherously slick. Beth kicks off her heels, clumsily but carefully peels off her stockings as she wanders down a street that drunken Romans have been staggering down since long before anyone even knew that the Earth was round. She finds that this piece of cultural heritage, which had so awed her when she’d first arrived, just doesn’t seem to matter as much anymore.

What  _does_  matter is that somewhere in this city, there is a party, and Beth is going to find it.

She follows flashing lights and the heartbeat-thump of bass to a door in a wall between a narrow stone building with elaborate ironwork and what looks like the crumbling remains of an ancient Roman watchtower. They’d told her when she’d arrived that what Rome is built on is mostly Rome. Ancient buildings and earthworks that, back home, would have been revered as priceless places of immense historical and cultural significance, here get bulldozed so they can put in an ‘aesthetically-consistent’ McDonald’s.

For some reason, this strikes Beth as both hilarious and fitting. She aims a vicious kick at the falling-down tower wall as she passes, but luckily for her bare feet, misses.

The night and the rain blur into sweat and neon and the ear-shattering throb of music, house or EDM or whatever they’re calling the music kids get high and dance to these days. One drink turns into three, turns into a line of shots and a crowd of Italians who look like extras from some television show about high schools of the rich and famous all chanting something in Italian, turns into sitting in a bathroom stall listening to a girl sobbing her heart out on the shoulder of one of the cluster of friends standing around her and blocking the paper towel dispenser. Beth’s knuckles sting from when she thinks she punched some teenager who called her a cougar, probably, the rest of it was in Italian but the winking and the nudging and the pointing and the dropped English word said more than enough.

Her head is spinning when she stumbles back out the door in the wall. She vomits on the cobbles and is reminded that the most brilliant, important, and historically significant human achievement in this whole storied city is its sewer system, and can’t stop laughing. 

“Y’know,” she slurs at the kind person holding back her hair, “I came here to see some real  _culture_. Like havin’ a history that’s based on…bein’ in one place for millennia…means you’ve got anythin’ figured out.”

The kind person hums, rubs her back soothingly.

“I’m an idiot,” Beth says, and the street is so narrow and the light is turning a pale, pathetic grey and her vomit on the cobbles of an ancient Roman street is suddenly not funny anymore. The sky looms, infinite, overhead. “I really am an idiot. You’ve just got more practice at buildin’ gilded frames around nothin’ at all. Where are my shoes?”

“Can’t take credit for any of it, sorry,” the kind person says, in a smooth, delicious accent unlike any Beth’s heard so far on her European tour. Unlike any Beth’s ever heard at all. “Not being from around here.”

Beth forces her eyes to focus.

“You’ve got two heads,” she observes.

“I do,” the kind person agrees, leaning in closer, and Beth suddenly realises why he’s being so kind. “And that’s not all I’ve got two of.”

Beth tries to fix at least one of his heads in her wavering vision, gives up. “Jus’ tell me you’ve got a spaceship or a portal generator or  _some_ thing that can get me off this godforsaken rock, an’ I’m yours.”

Both heads seem to pause at this.

“Well, usually I’m the one who brings that up,” the head to Beth’s left says, “but what the hell.”

…

There’s really no such thing as day or night onboard a spaceship in high orbit, but somehow when Beth wakes up, it still feels obscenely early. She slips out of the bed as carefully as she can, hoping not to set the mattress moving again and wake the two-headed stranger. Who even has a waterbed these days, anyway?

Last night’s champagne has already gone flat, the bottle standing open and forgotten beside the bed. Beth grabs it anyway, and one of the discarded glasses, pouring herself a flute of warm champagne as she pads across the room to the walk-in closet. She’s not sure whose benefit the glass is for. She already knows she’s going to finish the bottle on her own.

The gold lamé robe she finds and wraps around herself is cold, silky and shivery against her bare, goose-pimpled skin. The bedroom is carpeted in something lusciously soft and thick, and the metallic surface of the hall outside meets Beth’s bare feet with a shock of cold. She presses on, though. Somewhere on this flying bachelor pad, there has to be _some_ thing that can make her a decent cup of coffee.

That’s how she finds herself on what she’s helpless not to call the bridge, staring out the vast window that wraps halfway around the ship’s front, out into the infinite starfield falling away before her. The ship lists in its lazy orbit, and the Earth rises slowly into view, looking small and impossibly lonely against the vast backdrop of the cosmos, one small bright speck in an eternity of darkness.

Beth hears the voice right in her ear before she realises the two-headed stranger’s come up behind her. “Real hoopy view, huh?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing,” Beth admits, as the two-headed stranger pulls her close, deftly lifting the bottle of champagne from her hand. “I’m - sort of new to all of this.”

Her laugh sounds high, nervous, girlish, fake, but the stranger doesn’t seem to mind or notice.

“You sure seemed like an old pro last night,” he murmurs into her left ear, while his other head nips at her right earlobe.

“No, I - it’s complicated.”

“Hey, you wanted outta there. I got you outta there. What’s complicated about it?”

Beth looks down on her tiny speck of a planet. Down on Earth, the sun is starting to rise somewhere around Asia, lighting up the edges of the planet in a ring of golden fire. The planet flares once, brilliant, beautiful, burning, and then Beth has to look away or have her retinas seared.

_What’s complicated about it?_

“If I keep giving you sexual favours, will you take me as far as the Horsehead Nebula?” she asks the stranger, who has finished sucking on her earlobe and moved on to her neck.

“Sure, why not,” the stranger’s other head says, before taking a swig of flat champagne directly from the bottle.

Beth lets her eyes slip closed, relaxing into the stranger’s embrace. She’s got time to enjoy herself, indulge herself a little.

After all, she’s got until the Horsehead Nebula to figure out how she’s going to steal this spaceship.


End file.
